


Tenebrous

by PrancingProngsy



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, leoaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1771846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrancingProngsy/pseuds/PrancingProngsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the journey to Naples, Leo finds himself unable to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tenebrous

**Author's Note:**

> Season 2 Episode 10 spoilers, you've been warned.

_It is late._  
    He doesn't know how late, only that it is. The fire crackles, the crickets chirp, the stars twinkle overhead, carrying far less intrigue than they had before. He is sat on a blanket, fingers picking at the grass moodily as he stares up at the moon before his eyes slowly drag to stare into the flickering fire. He shivers, though it is not cold. Fire had tried to take his life. His jaw is set.  
  
    His wound itches beneath the bandage, a sign that it's healing. He should take comfort in that. Idly, a finger not twirled in the tall grass in which they'd taken refuge, scratches at the bandage, relieving some of the itch. The fire is warm on his face, his hands, his feet. The dark shadow of his friend, moving only slightly as he breathed quietly, sleep clearly settling upon him comfortably where it evaded him _completely_ , stares at him from across the flames. His jaw clenches. One of the horses shifts, breathing heavily until it settles again and he finds himself lost in the flames, the warmth entering his heart, growing until it is a burning spark that could only be put out with the blood of the man who'd killed his maestro.  
  
                                Fingers tug at the grass more insistently. A white rage fills his entire being. _Perhaps this is why sleep finds no place in his thoughts tonight._ The air is brisk, the smell of burning wood detracting from the cleanliness of it all. He shifts, pulling dirt onto the blanket for a moment before he absently brushes it away. Anger rips the blades of grass to shreds, hardly more than little flecks of what it once was. **That bastard killed the only man that ever gave a shit about him as a child. The only man he could _ever_ call 'father.'** Here, a soft noise is heard by any with ears open to receive it. It comes from deep inside his chest, forcing it's way out defiantly as his fists curl and his eyes burn. A whimper, accented by a distinct pain that is not physical. Never could be, even if it feels as though his heart is held in the vice-like grip of some creature of darkness who knows his soul better than he.  
  
 _It hurts._  
    Of course it does.  
           To lose someone who's influence on your life has been so significant is a tragedy. He understands now, why one man's death is a tragedy while a massacre somehow means less. His throat is dry, his tongue leaden. He buries his head in his knees, hair tickling the back of his neck as his eyes press to his patellas in hopes that the discomfort to his eye sockets might somehow prevent the hot wet tears from spilling onto his pants, leaving dark spots where they'd pressed against it.  
  
     His body shakes, arms winding around his legs to pull himself in, tighter, hoping for some, pathetic amount of comfort from merely being close to himself. Anger continues to burn, though it is lessened. Hatred. Sorrow. Loss instead replace it's harsh flames with something dampening. His chest does not burn. It aches. His fingers curl into the loose fabric of his shirt as he attempts to hold in the sobs that fight to break forth from his chest to be exclaimed into the night air and validated. Mourning is not something he is accustomed to. He tries to swallow, but all it accomplishes is a dry, violent sob bursting from his lips to echo against the stillness and for a moment he forgets that he is not alone. For that is how he feels. Truly alone. **Lost. _Limited._ **  
  
                              He does not see his friend stir. He does not know he's been staring at the horizon for the past hour, listening, cursing the name of the man who destroyed his life, who killed his friend's mentor, his father figure. He does not know that those dark eyes glowered, his jaw was set, his fingers curled into fists at the damage caused by greedy men to the most beautiful man that he'd ever known. He hardly notices when the shadow across the fire is gone, when the darkness indicating that he is not alone disappears to move beside him.  
  
He doesn't notice because he _can't._  
         His mind is focused on other things, the pain in his chest, the fear of dying, the fear of his limits. His breathing is ragged, his tears hot on his cheeks, sobs wracking his body in an unfamiliar way.  
  
Mourning the loss of something _precious._  
  
             Arms find their way around him and for a moment he stills, everything holding, even his breath as he blanks for just a moment. Those arms, however, are familiar and he finds himself releasing everything, things he didn't know he had. Tears and wails of a broken man to be eaten by the dark, where only they would know what had transpired. He leans into the touch, the warm, steadier heartbeat of his friend comforting in a way he'd never known anything to be before. His tears wet his shirt, his fingers wrinkle it, clinging to him because **this is what he has now.**  
  
                                                    His friend speaks no words, only offers soothing sounds, touches, anything to try and calm the raging tempest that is the torn and broken soul of a man who has seen his limits, who has been thrown back by the intensity of loss which he has never felt. And somehow this is soothing in it's own right. He is not as alone as he thought. He has always had him, hasn't he?  
  
 _His tears are dry by morning._  
                 The first rays of sun peek over the hills in the distance, turning the sky a beautiful pink. They untangle themselves. Not a word is spoken as he brushes himself off, wipes his face and begins to slowly make ready to continue their journey. Naples is not far now. He shoots his friend a smile. It's a sad, mangled thing, but the sentiment is there. He slaps his shoulder affectionately as they ready the horses. A playful shove is returned.  
  
 **Normalcy.**  
         _**A facade.**_  
                  A _hope_ that perhaps things that happen in the dead of night next to a dying fire when men are at their weakest will stay in the dark. Perhaps this is what strength is.


End file.
